


The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

by Fox_In_A_Box



Series: Harbinger Adventures [2]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Not Ward Compliant, Post-Worm, Some Christmass-y Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: In which the Harbinger clones are uncharacteristically well-behaved around Christmastime, the Number Man isn’t buying it, and Contessa just wants to spend the holidays in peace.
Relationships: Fortuna | Contessa/Kurt Wynn | Number Man | Harbinger
Series: Harbinger Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071245
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> Just a self-indulgent Christmas-themed fic to get myself into holiday mood in this plague-ridden world we live in, while I still procrastinate finishing the actual sequel to Notes. Sue me.

The square of the little town was filled with the cheerful chattering of dozens of people. Men, women, children of all ages laughing and smiling under the colourful decorations hanging above their heads and swinging gently in the breeze. The denizens of Earth Gimel were rejoicing in the festive atmosphere, allowing themselves to forget about the grief, and the pain, and the sense of utter hopelessness Gold Morning had left them with, if only for a few days. Perhaps even daring to look ahead towards a brighter future, to cling to a sliver of hope for the very first time since what had almost been the end of all worlds.

Surrounded by such an unrestrained display of mindless joy, Contessa realised she was feeling something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Boredom.

The Path wasn't good at dealing with boredom. Contessa had discovered as much when she was fourteen and a chain of unfortunate events prompted by her misguided attempt at filling the void between the concoction of a batch of vials and the next with something fun had caused the first and last environmental disaster in the history of Cauldron. Further experimenting had revealed that her power was apparently unable to conceive the idea of entertainment for entertainment's sake without some degree of destruction.

 _Path To Feeling Less Cold_ had kept her busy for a while, leading her to acquiring a black winter coat and the soft woollen scarf currently tied tight around her throat, but soon enough she had found herself back to square one. Warmer, yes, but not any less bored because of it.

Watching all kinds of different people coming and going from the nearby shops had been a nice distraction, at first, especially when a fight had broken out between the casher of a toy shop and a girl with rather interesting Breaker powers, and the resulting chaos had prompted bystanders to either flee as fast as they could or to pull out their electronic devices to record the scene. She had asked the Path if she should intervene – to break the monotony, if not out of genuine concern for public safety – but the answer had been a strong negative. She had understood why the moment a small patrol of Wardens had swooped in, putting an end to the scuffle with surprising efficiency.

The last thing she wanted was to face the empty threats of the new cape society, so she had turned to her power once more, inquiring about the best possible way to remain unnoticed. Which, as it turned out, included sitting on a rusty metal bench beside an elderly couple, more or less a block away from where the young capes were handcuffing the rogue while promising the shop owner a handsome sum of money as refund for the damaged goods.

It wasn't long before she started feeling restless again. Boredom, creeping up her spine at a steady pace, threatening to engulf her.

Much to her surprise, she noticed something else alongside it. Something subtle and yet nagging she concluded to be nostalgia. Asking for clarification was of little use, as the answer to the question _nostalgia of what?_ was the laconic and equally baffling _of home_. She hadn't had a place she could call a home in decades, not to mention the odd lack of grief she had felt at the discovery that her home universe had been torn apart by Scion's wrath. Though she attempted to go deeper, asking question after question and being bet with vague, unsatisfying answer after vague, unsatisfying answer, she was unable to come to any conclusion. On certain specific subjects, the Path had never been particularly forthcoming.

And so she sat, with her hands buried in the pockets of her new coat to shield them from the cold, resting, looking ahead at nothing in particular. If the clouds accumulating overhead were any indication, it was going to start snowing soon.

She yawned.

Since her gut feeling told her it wasn't a good idea to leave her hiding-in-plain-view spot just yet, she decided to take a peek at how some of her old enemies were faring. After she and the Number Man had raided his hideout, weeding out the ranks of his students, Teacher had retreated to an unspecified secluded location and postponed his project of harnessing an Endbringer's destructive power to a later date. What little of the PRT had survived Gold Morning was regrouping, Legend at the helm, determined to restore peace and safety to the world but definitely too busy reconstructing a semblance to law and order to lead a real witch hunt against a ghost. Which only left Her.

Contessa's eyebrows furrowed, an automatic reflex she hadn't yet learned to prevent, that manifested like clockwork whenever her mind wandered towards Her. Her nemesis. The winged abomination that had vowed to wreak havoc upon her life. Or, well, that's what she would have described it as if she had been gifted with a more imaginative disposition and a penchant for the dramatic. As far as she was concerned, the Simurgh was, to put it bluntly, a nuisance. A deadly one for sure, but nuisance nonetheless. White fog spread to every corner of her mind as she tried in vain to gauge the beast's intentions. She could only hope she didn't have any surprises for her in store. She hated surprises.

Contessa exhaled, her breath turning into a tiny cloud of white smoke as it came in contact with the freezing air. The elderly couple was feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons that had gathered around the bench in a feeding frenzy. The woman was rambling something about their children, all grown up and blessed with the opportunity to celebrate the holidays with their families, even after such grievous events.

"What about you, Miss?"

Contessa started. The look she offered the old man sitting beside her must have been strange indeed, as he let out a brief laugh and clarified. "Do you have a family to go back to for the holidays as well?"

Still rather puzzled, she did what she was used to doing whenever she struggled to disentangle herself from an unexpected interaction.

_What does he want from me?_

Answer: small talk.

Easier said than done.

_How can I achieve that?_

Answer: be honest.

As strange as it was, the Path telling her _not_ to lie, she didn't question it. All in all, when her power was concerned, she found blind compliance to be the safest course of action. "No family, I'm afraid. I did have one, but that was a long time ago. I can't even say I remember their faces. It's just as well. I do have friends, though. I guess you could call them that. Well, _a_ friend. Even though I don't see him as often as he would like. Sometimes I feel like he holds it against me."

"You should visit him more often, then."

The suggestion was accompanied by a warm smile, the kind of smile she had rarely received in nearly four decades. Admittedly, her life hadn't offered her many occasions to get acquainted with friendly old people whose only purpose seemed to be striking conversation with younger strangers to offer kind words and unsolicited advice.

Contessa nodded. One of the rare times she allowed her body to react instinctively rather than running her potential responses through the Path first. "Sure."

A formulaic exchange of "happy holidays" later, the old man turned towards his equally old wife (life partner? companion?), offered her his arm, and helped her get up from the cold bench. With one last goodbye she didn't bother to return, they went on their merry way leaving Contessa in the only company of the pigeons, trying to peck each other's eyes out to win the rights to the remaining breadcrumbs.

Contessa watched them battle to the death without really paying attention. Her focus was elsewhere. A new path had started forming inside her head.

_How do I spend satisfying holidays?_

Fifty-eight steps.

She made to stand up and start working towards the first step – which involved hijacking a cargo of mixed supplies heading towards the local storage – but she found herself hesitating. She made one little adjustment to the Path. There were no drastic changes to the number of required steps. Satisfied, she smiled to herself.

Red had always been his colour.

****

The silence that permeated the residential neighbourhood where the Number Man had settled down after the non-apocalypse was a testament to his determination not to let his new, cosier life be swept away by a whirlwind of over-ambitious schemes and secret conspiracies. No huge malls or chattering crowds in sight, only a set of identical buildings on both sides of the streets, all sporting tidy little front yards and drawn curtains as the celebrations carried on on the inside. And, most importantly, people who knew when and how to mind their own business.

It wasn't difficult to locate his apartment, now more than ever, as his was the only building not currently adorned with ugly plastic Santas climbing down a set of fake stairs or minimalistic neon representations of angels, shooting stars, and reindeers. It had, however, a young man who appeared to be having the time of his life dragging something around. Something that just wouldn't stop squirming.

To Bonesaw's credit, if her goal had been to create an army of unapologetically sadistic teenage murder machines, she had reached it flawlessly. Surprise lasted about one second on the clone's face, quickly replaced by a lopsided smirk that was all pride and smug self-assurance. A kid showing off the prize he had just won at the school's science fair – except the project wasn't a miniature volcano with semi-realistic red lava, but a middle-aged man tied up like a pig for the slaughter with what looked like several meters of multicoloured Christmas lights.

"Miss Contessa!" The boy exclaimed.

"Just Contessa will do. You're Number Five."

The Harbinger grinned, if possible, even wider and offered her a small bow. "The one and only!"

Contessa gestured towards the hopeless victim who, in the meantime, had taken to staring up at her with wide eyes and pure terror written all over his features. Whatever pleas he might have meant to direct at her were muffled by the plastic wire running between his teeth. "Who's the gentleman?"

"Honestly? No idea. I found this guy," Harbinger #5 nudged the man's ribs with the toe of his shoe, which prompted him to let out a pitiful sob. "Setting up decorations outside his house. It was my turn to take out the trash, so I thought I might at least make it worth my while."

"By torturing a stranger with Christmas lights?"

A dangerous glint shone behind the lenses of the clone's glasses. "You should have seen his face when I told him I was going to switch them on! You'd think they wouldn't be hot enough to do any real damage, but they do burn the flesh. You just need to know where to place them. No better way to highlight the irony of this holiday, if you ask me."

As he went on rambling about the delightful contradiction of that one time of the year when everyone pretended to be kinder and more charitable only to go back to their old selfish, vicious selves in a matter of days, Contessa observed him with interest. That didn't sound like Kurt at all. Cynically dismissive of social and cultural norms? Maybe. Pretentious? Definitely. But he had never exhibited that kind of passionate hate for other people's happiness, not even before their formal introduction to one another and her having to wipe the floor with him before being able to talk some sense into him. In fact, it sounded much more like...

"Jack must have really hated Christmas."

Harbinger #5 cocked his head to the side. "Uh?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Any chance you can be persuaded to let him go?"

The clone made an exaggerated show of considering her words, even tapping his chin with his index finger, before answering: "No, I don't think so."

Never breaking eye contact, Contessa brushed a strand of hair away from her face with a deliberately slow gesture that showed the blade of her stiletto knife, tucked safely in the inside of her sleeve. Number Five's eyes followed her movements closely. She could almost tell the split second when his power kicked in and assured him there was no chance for him to avoid being struck in a vital organ if he tried to pull the rope any further. The expression on his face went from slight alarm, to disappointment, to resignation in the span of less than a minute.

"Alright," he said. "But I'll have you know, I thought you were more fun."

"You were misinformed."

A short while later, one Mr. Brown was finally freed from his festive constraints and allowed to hurry back home on still shaky legs – but not before he was described in great detail the rather unpleasant things that would happen to him if he attempted to get the authorities involved. Deprived of his toy, Harbinger #5 was now sulking like...well, like a scolded teenager, arms folded on his chest and eyes darting this way and that, searching for something that could replace his unwitting playmate.

Contessa thought it better to redirect his attention elsewhere before he set his sights on something – or someone else. "Is Number Man home?"

"Number...oh, you mean Zero? Yeah, he's inside doing...I'm not sure what. Who cares."

"I don't think he'd be happy to know you call him that."

The clone shrugged. "And when is he ever?"

Had she not been sure he would have taken it as a sign of her complicity, Contessa would have chuckled. The boy did have a point.

Except no, it wasn't exactly true. Contessa didn't need to ask the Path to hand her the definitive meaning of the funny expression that appeared on the Number Man's face after the sheer surprise of seeing her at his doorstep with a rather annoyed Number Five behind her washed away. Her memory wasn't perfect, it didn't need to be when she could summon any past event she had ever witnessed with a single question, but this one she knew very well for the simple reason that she had demanded clarification from the Path many, many times before and the answer had remained the same: tentative happiness.

It didn't last long, though. As soon as his attention shifted towards his clone, his demeanour changed. "Where did you find him?"

"Just outside. But the next time you meet a certain Mr. Brown who lives on the other side of the street, you may want to remind him what could happen to him and his family if he goes to the police claiming he's been tortured by a blond teenager with glasses."

"Oh, thank God!"

If Contessa hadn't made a habit of running a small Path in the background helping her to dissimulate most of her instinctive physical responses, she would have been frowning. Previous experiences had shown that the Number Man's possible reactions to one of his clones escaping his control sat in the range that went from mild disappointment to barely restrained frustration, depending on the gravity of the actions said clone was responsible of. Relief didn't fit the pattern, especially not when coupled with the uncharacteristic invocation to a god he always made the point to remind everyone was but a product of the inability of the human race come to terms with their own insignificance in the grand scheme of things.

Harbinger #5 had already made himself scarce, likely not wanting to test his luck any further by lingering around when the Number Man hadn't yet mentioned any punishment of sorts. Contessa didn't wait to be invited in. A useless formality, that's what the Number Man would have called it. The hints that he would have been more than amenable to her invading his privacy were already there, anyway, and personal experience told her that one of the perks he appreciated the most about their camaraderie was the possibility to gloss over social conventions neither of them really understood the necessity of.

"I couldn't help but notice you're the only one who hasn't gone all-out with the decorations," she mused, shrugging off her coat, now that four walls were protecting her from the chilling breeze blowing outside. "Bold decision for someone who's dead set on not raising suspicions."

"I weighed the pros and the cons of conforming to the festive atmosphere and realised that having to keep the clones from using the decorations to wreak havoc was worth the trouble of getting a couple of strange looks from the neighbours," the Number Man chuckled. "They seem to be under the assumption that I'm either not religious, which is absolutely correct, or that I'm the kind of person that hates holidays because he cannot stand to see other people's happiness, which is...well."

He took the coat from her and hung it on the nearby rack, before proceeding to do the same with her scarf and hat. 

The Number Man's strange demeanour started to make a little more sense as soon as Contessa stepped into the living room, the atmosphere quiet and devoid of the usual chaotic rampage she had come to associate with the clones' presence. Barring Number Five, who was still sulking whilst pretending to be reading one of Number Man's financial magazines, the Harbingers were sitting on the carpet in a geometrically perfect circle and appeared to be engaged in a...game of Clue? Instead of the rush to out-perform each other in a clumsy attempt at impressing her, their only response to her appearance was a chorus of "hello Miss Contessa!" No boasting about their powers or recent endeavours. No begging her to recount the most disturbing things she had done as an agent of Cauldron. No gruesome trophies on display for her to admire.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

"See what I mean?" He asked, as they both watched the clones go back to their game. "Not destroying the house when I'm at work is one thing, but _this_? I haven't found any suspicious packages in the mail for three weeks. No strange disappearances, no bones of uncertain origins buried in the neighbour's front yards. I was accosted by an old lady on my way to the office, yesterday, who thanked me because – and here I quote –my sweet, darling son had helped her with her with the groceries."

"I wouldn't say they're necessarily plotting anything," She paused. "We're all better behaved around Christmastime, isn't that what they say?"

"Oh no, they are," the Number Man replied. "Plotting something, I mean. Ninety-nine point six, four, one, eight per cent sure. Although you know I don't like probabilities. I can usually make a pretty accurate estimate of when and where and how they're going to take action, but this time? No such luck. My guess is they're attempting to lull me into a false sense of security, but they're doing a terrible job at it," then, looking at her as if he had just realised she could very well be the solution to all his troubles, he asked: "Any chance you can give me a hint?"

There were very few things Contessa was unwilling to try for her former colleague's peace of mind. However, the moment she formulated the question that would lead her to discover what the Harbingers were planning exactly, she found herself stumbling into a conflict with one of the Paths she was already following. Puzzled, she traced back the the one that brought her to where she was now and found that the forty-ninth step to ensure she'd spend satisfying holidays required her not to help him get into the clones' heads. Curious, but not alarming enough to have her ironclad faith in the Path waver.

"I don't think so," she concluded.

The Number Man nodded, accepting the statement as a mere fact. Contessa was reminded of the reason why she enjoyed having him around more than any other person she had allied herself with throughout the years. It was refreshing, it really was, to deal with someone who no matter how unreasonable the Path's directions could be (to an outside perspective, of course. Contessa knew there was a valid reason for every suggestion her power provided her with – well, _almost_ every suggestion) placidly went along with it without bothering her with further inquiries she would have a chance to answer only after interrogating the Path once more, trapping her a vicious circle of more and more confusing answers.

He gestured for her join him in the kitchen for a modicum of privacy. If the sight of the normally rowdy clones peacefully playing a tabletop game had been startling enough, the one she was met with as she followed the Number Man into the adjacent room was outright bizarre. Every available surface, from the dinner table, to the counter, to the top of the shelves, was encumbered with pastries of several different types, fillings and flavours. The only other occasion she remembered witnessing something similar belonged to a lifetime before, when the white-tiled kitchen of the Cauldron Compound had been overrun by the Number Man's delicious creations for a week or so, right after the Echidna incident.

"I've found myself with a lot of time on my hands," he explained as a way of justification, presenting her with a muffin and a mug of what closer inspection revealed it to be hot cocoa. "Hopefully you can help me get rid of some of these. There's only so many homemade cakes you can gift the local charity before people start asking questions."

Contessa took a bite, allowing herself to savour the sweet taste of raspberries. The fact that he had instinctively (purposefully?) selected what had to be her favourite flavour among a dozen or so different ones was a nice touch, filling her with a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with her body finally acclimating to the indoor temperature.

"You're not just worried about them," she stated.

"There have been complaints about my involvement with the new parahuman institutions," The Number Man didn't even try to deny her assumption. "If they reach the PRT's ears, or however they're calling themselves now, it's the end of my peaceful exile. Legend has been looking for an excuse to send someone to hunt me and the Harbingers down for a while, now. He probably thinks getting rid of what's left of Cauldron will allow him to atone for his misguided decision of having ever associated with us."

There was genuine frustration in his words. It made Contessa long for a simpler time, when everything could be resolved with a tap to the back of the head, letting Rebecca handle the negotiations afterwards. She knew they were thinking the same thing as the corner of his mouth twitched, a bitter smile suppressed just in time.

"So," he went on, preferring not to dwell on the unpleasant prospects the future might have in store. "How much time do I have to prepare? If you could give me an idea of how long the operation is going to be, that would be useful too. Well behaved or not, I need to call someone to look after the Harbingers in my absence, if I'm planning to be away from home for more than twenty-four hours. And to contact my ammunition supplier, now that I think about it."

Contessa blinked. She hadn't made the reason for her visit all that clear, she supposed. She made to dismiss his assumption with a wave of her hand, before realising both of her hands were occupied. She settled for shaking her head instead. "I believe you misunderstood me. I don't need your help -- not in the way that you're thinking, at least. I just thought it would be nice to spend a few days together. Do some catching-up, for old times' sake."

"Oh," it was the Number Man's turn to blink in disbelief. "Yes, yes, of course."

Contessa set the mug aside, pondering the odd feeling that all of a sudden had replaced the satisfied sense of pace she had been enjoying up until that moment. Was it _guilt_? Guilt didn't suit her, she decided. There had been no second-guessing when she had ripped away innocents from their home universes to serve as test subjects for their power-granting mixtures, nor when she had wilfully set capes and civilians alike up to die a horrible death to buy her and herself some time to prepare for the end of the world. And yet a pang of discomfort shot through her guts when it was apparent that the Number Man couldn't fathom her crashing into his new life if not to drag him along into yet another one of her endeavours.

She made sure to finish her muffin and set the empty liner cup aside as well, before closing the short distance between them. The Number Man must have calculated the speed and range of her movement to discern its purpose, as he didn't recoil or tense up in preparation for a fight. Even still, it took him a second or two to kiss her back, arms wrapping around her waist. As Contessa treaded her fingers through his hair, he let out a pleased hum against her lips which she took as good enough of an encouragement to kiss him deeper.

"For the record, this is doing absolutely nothing to persuade me you have no ulterior motives," he mumbled after they broke apart, despite his body language clearly stating the opposite. He was lingering, forehead resting against hers, unwilling to let go just yet.

Contessa found herself in a rather similar predicament and, after asking a simple question to make sure that the clones were still very much engaged in finding out if Mrs. White had killed Professor Plum with a lead pipe in the ballroom, would have gladly carried on, if not for the shrill ring the doorbell causing them to simultaneously turn their heads towards the source of the noise.

The Number Man adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and straightened his posture. He couldn't have been more obvious if he had been blushing. Contessa couldn't help but find it...what was the adjective the Path had suggested that one time? Ah, yes, _adorable_.

"One moment," he said, rushing out of the room to answer the door.

Contessa couldn't resist the temptation to eavesdrop the conversation he proceeded to have with whoever was standing on the threshold – a woman and a small child, by the looks of it. She was only able to grasp the gist of it, the woman offering the Number Man a casserole which he tried in vain to refuse, all the while showering him with praise for his supposed parenting skills and repeating "thank you" after "thank you" like a broken record. Only when she judged to have shown him enough gratitude for whatever service he had rendered her and her kid did she let him close the door.

"Can you hold this for me?" he sighed, handing her the food without waiting for an answer. He went to stand in the middle of the living-room, leaving her with an armful of beef, mushrooms, and assorted spices. He crossed his arms over his chest, that simple gesture enough to catch the clones' attention. Five heads turned to face him. "Alright, which one of you scared off little Timmy's bullies, the other day?"

No response.

Predicting he would turn to her for support, Contessa nodded towards Harbinger #3.

"They were four against one," the clone in question hastened to explain, as if it was the most natural to do in that situation. It would have been sweet, admirable even, if he hadn't shown a taste for mindless violence enough times before, making him and the rest of his brothers the kind of people that would rather join the beating than try and stop it. As things stood, it was just perplexing.

Unwilling to come to terms with the fact that one of his clones had done what could only be described as a good deed of his own volition, the Number Man insisted. "And how many of them left with all of their limbs intact?"

Number Three looked away, foreshadowing how the honest answer was one he was _not_ proud of. Had that been the case, he wouldn't have hesitated to describe in gleeful detail the sickening noises their bones had made as he had snapped them one by one as his brothers cheered him on, adding all sorts of details that may or may not have been made-up on the spot for the sole purpose of aggravating the Number Man further.

" _Allofthem_ ," he muttered in a single breath, Contessa's presence discouraging him from wasting time coming up with a convincing lie she would have picked up on the moment he uttered it.

The Number Man lifted one eyebrow, which in his body language corresponded to an exaggerated display of skepticism. "Are you sure? Do you want to repeat that?"

"I really don't understand," Harbinger #4 quipped up, clicking his tongue in mock-disapproval. "You've been bothering us for ages with all your talk of power and responsibility, and now that we decide to use our skills for good..."

The glare he earned from the Number Man persuaded him to leave it at that, but not without failing to hold back a fit of laughter, soon echoed by the other five clones.

"He wasn't lying, but I doubt knowing that will make you feel any better," Contessa told him later, as she helped him find a place for the casserole. It was by no means an easy task. They settled for balancing it on a group of four freshly baked loaves of bread.

"It doesn't," he said, confirming her suspicions. "You're free to laugh at me and call me paranoid, now, but--"

"Realist might be a better word," she interjected.

True to form, the tension in the Number Man's shoulders dissipated somewhat. It was one of the innumerable tricks she had learned had the power of making him come back to his senses the rare times he slipped, letting himself be carried away by this or that human emotion he swore he didn't have it in him to feel. _Realism_ , together with _objectiveness_ and a whole host of similar words appeared to have a soothing effect on his nerves, most likely helping him rationalise his own humanity. Still, the uncharacteristic nervousness persisted as he went back and forth between the five rooms that made up the apartment with Contessa in tow to fetch his overcoat and a pair of gloves.

"Where are you going?"

"At this rate, I'll be out of flour in thirty-two hours," he explained, stopping to look back at her with his hand already on the doorknob. "Want to come with?"

After ascertaining that her current Path had no objections, Contessa was more than happy to accept the offer.

****

Little by little, the Path worked its magic.

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, the Harbingers were consuming the baked goods at a faster rate than it took the Number Man to make them, which Contessa interpreted as a sign that he had regained some control over his life. Or was starting to, at the very least. Her presence, with the implicit certainty that no matter what they were scheming her power would be able to thwart it, no doubt played a significant part into grounding him.

Perhaps wanting to keep her as busy as possible in the hopes of preventing her from ruining their plans, the clones roped her in a series of obscure Christmas rituals she had never heard of – in her defence, the hazy memories she retained from her childhood were the absolute opposite of feel-good Christmas-themed quality time and, in spite of some of the younger members’ insistence, Christmas celebrations had never been part of Cauldron's modus operandi.

Which was how she found herself marathoning Hallmark movies from the 90s the only TV channel of Earth Gimel broadcasted non-stop during the holidays, listening to Harbingers #4 and #1 discuss the various ways they would have improved the endings. Most of their ideas involved a serial killer crashing the wedding or a natural disaster that would revert the survivors to their base instincts, pushing them to hunt each other for sport until only one was left.

Another so-called tradition she had no way of knowing whether it was legitimate or had been made-up by the Harbingers as some kind of odd pastime – though she suspected the latter – was hanging out on the balcony, shooting pellet guns at the would-be robbers who had taken advantage of the rest of the of the neighbourhood having driven off to the nearby cities to buy some last-minute presents. A surprisingly fun activity, that soon devolved into a no-powers allowed competition between her and the Number Man with the clones cheering them on from the sidelines.

It was startling, but not entirely unwelcome, to realise she had been interrogating the Path less and less during the last few days, and always as an afterthought to make sure she wasn't skipping any fundamental steps. She had tried limiting the use of her power before, with...less than encouraging results. As short lived as it was, it made for a nice change of pace.

Until the Path reached out to her subconscious in the middle of the night, as she watched the Number Man sleep with his head nestled in the crook of her neck. Almost simultaneously, her stomach made a strange noise. If memory served, there should have been one mint and chocolate cookie left in the jar above the fridge. Contemplating the reason why the Path wanted her to plant evidence of a feral animal attack in the car of an upstanding member of the new parahuman society at 3 AM in the morning, she rolled out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.

Five shadows were lurking around the apartment. One of them was carrying a box that was leaking a red substance all over the floor, which was definitely _not_ strawberry jam since the Number Man had exhausted his reserves with the last batch of mini shortcakes. Not to mention the fact that strawberry didn't smell quite as iron-y. They stopped dead in their tracks the moment they spotted her, a pack of young deer caught in the headlights.

The clones seemed to conduct an entire debate through shrugs and mutual glances alone, before the designated spokesman stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back in the same way the Number Man always did when he was about to deliver unpleasant news. "We would be very grateful if you didn't spoil the surprise to Zero."

Contessa allowed herself a moment to consider the clones' request. Acceptable, she decided, as long as she'd be able to complete the last step in time. "You ambushed him in his car. Where is it parked?"

Number Two cast a look over his shoulder at the others, who were exchanging similarly concerned glances back and forth between themselves. Not a single word was spoken, and yet they appeared to reach a shared consensus.

"Two blocks from here, on the side of the highway that borders the woods."

"Good," Contessa said. "I'll need you to come with me to help me out with the clean-up. The rest of you can go get my coat and start to think up a way to remove bloodstains from the floorboards, if you don't want the Number Man to find out about your... _present_ too soon."

She didn't waste any time trying to explain that her compliance with their scheme was only due to the last step requiring she tampered with a crime scene for her to be able to comfortably enjoy what was left of the holidays, making a mental note to ensure they would not expect her to back them up with their future mischief.

Number Five opened his mouth to protest against being forced to miss out on the fun, but was promptly shushed by One digging his elbow into his side. Harbinger #3, for his part, had disappeared and reappeared in record time with her coat in hand and a huge grin on his face. Number Two didn't dare question her order to follow her outside nor the ones that came after that, which made the task all the easier.

They made it back a little while after sunrise, just in time to hear the Harbingers break into a loud, off-key cover of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" while dragging their original out of the bedroom.

The Number Man eyed the box Harbinger #1 had just placed on his desk.

Contessa could almost see the mental process he was going through. Sixteen inches long, twenty-four inches wide. Unassuming white cardboard. Red and green ribbon on top. Unlikely to trigger a detonation upon opening. Very likely to contain something he wasn't going to be happy with.

"What's in the box?" He asked.

"Open it," Number Three urged him. His brothers just smiled.

He cast her glance, to which she responded with a brief nod.

To his credit, his reaction to uncovering the severed head of the leader of the small protest group who was planning to file a formal complaint addressed to the new PRT about a notorious member of Cauldron being allowed to walk free was exceptionally subdued. Still, Contessa hastened to place a hand on his shoulder to keep him from threatening the clones to terminate them personally, one by one. The silent look she offered him meant _I've taken into account all possible repercussions for this action and taken steps as not to have any of them occur in the foreseeable future. Don't thank me._ The Number Man's chest deflated with an inward a sigh of relief.

"Five almost ruined the surprise," Harbinger #4 remarked.

"Not my fault if I can't be bothered to do some stupid good deed to keep him on edge."

"He has no self-control," Number Two added.

"Hey!"

"The psychological torture was a plus," Number One mused, not even bothering to hide the wicked smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

If one ignored the human head in a box and only paid attention to the way they went on to laugh and take jabs at each other, they could have almost been mistaken for an ordinary, not bloodthirsty group of teenagers.

Almost.

"This is from me," Contessa told him then, handing him a gift box of her own.

"Can I at least know if it's another body part, before I open it? I might need to grab more tissues," the Number Man said, an unmistakable hint of amusement in the tone of his voice. It was her turn to feel relieved.

"I'm afraid I haven't been as creative."

Creative or not, the red apron with "Baking? Easy as 3.141592…" stitched on the front was met with a display hilarity that was totally unwarranted for such a lame pun. Still, Contessa found no reason to complain. Especially not when the ensuing surge of affection somehow managed to override the Number Man's unique brand of emotional constipation, letting him thank her with a half-hug, one arm looping around her shoulders to pull her closer, and a kiss on her temple.

Outside, somewhere, it started to snow. Not that either of them noticed – they were too busy stopping the Harbingers from improvising a game of rugby with the severed head as the ball.

**Author's Note:**

> "The Number Man stress bakes" is not a take I expected to come up with and yet it makes sense. Baking is MERCILESS if you don't know the exact quantities you need for each ingredient and the precise amount of time the pastries need to stay in the oven/fridge/whatever down to the second. I have no doubt someone with math-based superpowers would excel at it, among other things.


End file.
